


Your lips may curse me, but your eyes can't lie

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Frenemies, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Spoilers, Season/Series 11, Shotgunning, True Forms, Verbal Abuse, What Is Wrong With ME, crowstiel, demon smoke, disembodied handjobs, look at their fucking love connection, sexy demon smoke shotgunning, smoke jobs, smokeplay, smokeplay needs to be a thing, throw me a line here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Castiel and Crowley say, and what they do, are two very different things.</p><p>“Abomination.” The exhale of the word tastes so damn sweet.<br/>“Hypocrite.” Crowley breathes in reply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your lips may curse me, but your eyes can't lie

“You’ll help us.” It’s not so much a question as an order, calmly stated.

Crowley raises his chin, then lowers it, peering up at Castiel from half-lidded eyes. His lips quirk up in a one-sided smile. “I might.” The supple, honey-coloured leather of the Chesterfield creaks beneath him as he shifts.

“Don’t play games, Crowley.” The angel’s breath against his face is warm, inviting. “You asked for me to come here.” Castiel frowns thunder, lips hovering above Crowley’s then drawing away as he leans forward to chase them, not quite claiming.

“I like games,” Crowley drawls. Castiel’s hands fist around the lapels of his jacket. Eyes close enough to blur into one giant all-seeing eye of infinity-blue. “And I like it when you beg.”

Full bottom lip caught between his own even, white teeth; Castiel’s hips lift, so slightly, from the couch. His voice is rough velvet, pleading. “I do not beg.”

“’I do not beg, _King_.’” Crowley corrects him: and it’s Crowley’s turn to dodge that eager mouth, mounting his attack at Castiel’s throat, tipped back and trembling, pulse butterflying beneath Crowley’s lips. Drag and scratch of stubble beneath tongue. The jump of his Adam’s apple as, worshipful, he says,

“You are not, and will never be, my king.” Castiel angles his head to stage a smooth counterattack. His hands slide beneath Crowley’s suit jacket, slip around his waist, thumbs rubbing circles, pulling his shirt free from his trousers.

Breathlessly: “Fine by me. I’ve a fresh baker’s dozen of virgins waiting for me back in Hell that’ll distract me from that disappointment.” One foot hooks around an ankle, insinuating its way between Castiel’s legs, immaculate patent-leather toe rubbing at his calf.

Castiel groans into the crook of his neck. “You disgust me.” He allows himself to be manoeuvred, pulled on top, Crowley’s thigh between his, half-lying on the couch.

Pressing their foreheads together. Nose to nose. When Crowley murmurs, “The feeling’s mutual, sparrow,” he can feel his lips brushing oh-so-nearly against Castiel’s, the heat of millimetre-proximity as good as a caress.

“Abomination.” The exhale of the word tastes so damn sweet.

“Hypocrite.” Crowley breathes in reply. Castiel’s fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck, rub behind his ears like he’s a cat and Crowley arches helplessly into the touch, his thigh pressing up between the angel’s legs.

“Murderer.” Castiel rocks against him, a low moan rumbling in his chest.

Retrieving one hand from around his waist, Crowley laces their fingers, brings them up to his mouth to scatter kisses across each one of Castiel’s knuckles in turn. “Takes one to know one.”

“I will kill you.” That wet mouth is open now, panting, full lips parted and pinked with arousal.

“Again? Are you keeping track?” Crowley whispers it in his ear, feels him shudder the whole length of their bodies, pressed together like tessellation, “Because, Hot Wings, I’ve lost count.”

Castiel twists beneath his touch, arching luxuriously. His eyes are lazy-longing, his voice frayed. “You belong back in the Pit.” He angles for Crowley’s mouth, but Crowley shifts away, and a little deep line of pique appears between Castiel’s eyebrows at being teased. “Deep… deep… down, where you can never claw your way back out.”

He gasps as Crowley darts forward, flicks his tongue out, just barely licking the tip of the angel’s proffered tongue. “And you belong in the menswear section at JCPenney. It’s enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin…” Crowley leans back again, tips his chin up, lips slack. Sees Castiel’s mouth open as if he’s about to speak, interrupted, eyes narrowing as Crowley roars free of the confines of his vessel.

Castiel presses fingers against his meat-suit’s lips, like he’s trying to shut him up. Crowley trickles around them, rippling in amusement as Castiel aims a light but heartfelt slap at the inert cheek of the body now lying limp on the couch. He billows and twists, and the angel runs fingers through him, delicately, inclines his head to one side, irritation and fondness and curiosity flitting like shadows across his face. He holds out his hand and Crowley quivers over it, twists around his wrist. Castiel beckons, a graceful gesture. Lies back on the couch, full length, like an invitation. Lets out a little gasp as the smoke rushes him, enveloping, insinuating around his hands, into his cuffs, between the buttons of his shirt. Castiel arches off the cushions, back bowing, hands gripping the arm of the couch above his head. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth open and keening. The fabric of his shirt and trousers ripples gently, undulating with the red smoke rushing beneath. Against his skin. He writhes. His fingertips tighten on the amber leather armrest, breath quickening, hips rolling, trousers tented at his crotch, ebbing and flowing like waves as Crowley plays him like a maestro. Seeking ingress, everywhere; soft but insistent. Castiel spreads his legs, docile, and moans, hips moving quicker, the flutter beneath his clothing fast as playing cards through bicycle spokes. Around him, inside him, touching everywhere at once. His cry of crisis is a single beautiful broken note, his whole body stiffening. And Crowley holds him, cradled tight in vapour, until he comes down, slowly, from it.  
Fingers unclench from the armrest. Languid, Castiel waves a hand, smoke trailing from his sleeve. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth softens into an amused little smile. He shakes his head slowly. Red tendrils curl lazily now from his collar and cuffs and waistband, circle around his head like a bloody halo. Castiel struggles upright. Kneeling on the couch, he bends over the dead vessel lying there, caresses its cold cheek, opens his mouth just slightly and blows a steady stream of red smoke between its lifeless lips.  
Crowley doesn’t go back in all at once. He’s playful. Curling back and forth between his vessel and Castiel’s, breathed in and out, between two lungs. Somersaulting, tendrils of him curl between the bows of the angel’s lips. Castiel turns his head to one side and exhales the last threads of him, sly sideways glance, a smile playing about his mouth as formless scarlet re-converges and surges back into the empty vessel’s mouth.  
Crowley opens his eyes.

“You reek of corruption.” Castiel’s hand tightens around Crowley’s collar. Crowley smiles.

“Ah. Not a fan of the Tobacco Vanille, then? Maybe more of a Straight to Heaven boy-” His words are cut off as Castiel drags him sharply up by his tie, slicking their mouths violently together. Crowley moans, low. That sweet sharp tongue might taste different, feel different, when he’s experiencing it though this body and not from the inside out, but it’s every bit as exquisite.  His hand creeps up, ruffling the dense soft hair at Castiel’s nape, urging him into another deep kiss until Castiel pulls away, panting, to say, “You’ll help-”

“-you.” Crowley says. A hand either side of Castiel’s face, and the angel lowers his gaze, then raises it again to look him directly in the eye, hateful and adoring. Crowley says, softly, “I’ll do it for _you_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have this semi-headcanon that Crowley only uses the cutesy pet names when he's disrespecting someone, never when he really cares. And likewise, he'll perform the most unspeakably depraved acts with anyone who's up for it, but the only one he'll treat with actual tenderness is, well, the one being he insists he wants to rip into confetti and then lets off over and over again.
> 
> So I set out to write a bit of smut that was basically these two verbally abusing one another whilst they make out on a couch like Morticia and Gomez, but then they decided they wanted to do this whole true-form demon-smoke sex-shotgunning thing and now I suddenly have a serious kink for something that isn't even a thing and my life will never be the same again ;_;


End file.
